


Side Effects May Include

by jellybeanforest



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Tony Stark, Bickering, Bond bites, Cap-Ironman Bingo, Cap-Ironman Kinkmeme Prompt, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Matchmaker Natasha Romanov, Omega Steve Rogers, Omegaverse, Permanent Bonding, Slowburn Relationship, Unexpected Bonding, body issues, frenemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 17:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20456621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest
Summary: Alphas claim an omega for the duration of a single heat using bond bites, which usually fade within a couple weeks, allowing both parties to go their separate ways and move on if they so choose. That’s the usual way of things, anyway. However, Project Rebirth comes with a few unforeseen side effects on omega Steve Rogers. He can’t get drunk; he can’t be properly anesthetized; and his heats are fewer and far between. All of these are manageable, if occasionally annoying, but the largest, most-glaringly inconvenient one doesn’t come up until his first supercharged heat spent with alpha Tony Stark: permanent bond bites.What was supposed to be a one-time thing turns into a permanent arrangement when Steve can only respond sexually to Tony, and Tony feels obligated to the omega who bears his mark.Based on a Cap-IronMan Kinkmeme Prompt. For the Cap-IronMan Bingo 2019 Round 2 - Obtaining.





	Side Effects May Include

**Author's Note:**

> In this Omegaverse, alpha and omega bonds (sealed by a bite to the bonding gland) are biologically temporary and designed to ensure fidelity during the heat. They generally fade approximately two weeks after the end of the omega’s heat, at which time, both are no longer biologically compelled to be together. An alpha and omega can still choose to enter a bonding contract, which is akin to marriage, in that both parties legally choose to be with the other long-term, but the biological bond as exhibited through the bite has to be renewed at each heat. As an unexpected side effect of Project Rebirth, Steve has significantly fewer heats (like once a year) but the bonding bite (if there is one) turns out to be permanent. The story starts out as super-awkward friends-with-benefits Stucky then becomes Stony. The “Dubious Consent” tag is related to issues inherent in standard Omegaverse tropes.
> 
> Also, although this is mostly MCU, I included the more humorous version of deaf Hawkeye from the comics, because I like that asshole.

“Stop acting the maggot, Steven, an’ come sit with yer ol’ Gran now,” calls Nana O’Neill in her thick brogue, knobby finger curled to beckon her grandson to her side, ostensibly to help her knit. She’s a stocky old thing with drooping jowls and hair parted and swept back in a bun covered by a headscarf. Her dress extends from neck down to wrist and ankles in layers of thick fabric, looking for all the world like the conservative Catholic omega she has always been.

Regretfully, Steve says his goodbyes to the other boys then obediently comes to sit beside his Gran, holding her off-white yarn in a loop around his hands as she knits. Despite his asthma, he would much rather play baseball. True, he was always picked last (unless Bucky was team captain), and he wasn’t much of a runner (or pitcher or hitter or baseman), but he was a pretty good catcher, able to call plays and direct his team from behind the plate based on the strengths and weaknesses of the players on the field and at bat.

Billy Turner had said he was too bossy for an omega, and Bucky had predictably defended Steve, calling him a natural leader, secondary gender be damned.

“Haven’t you been getting on with the Barnes boy? Isn’t he an alpha?” Nana says in her lilting accent. Despite the peculiar phrasing, Steve knows it’s not a question.

“Yeah, he’s real swell,” Steve replies brightly. They’d been friends for years, ever since early grade school well before either of them presented as opposing secondary genders.

“Hm. You two fixing to bond any day now?”

“What?” Steve nearly drops the yarn, his face pinking. “No, we aren’t like that, Nana. Bucky… he’s my best friend.” His only friend, truth be told.

“Right. Friends.” Nana O’Neill hums, her knitting needles stilling. “Look here… in my day, a bond was forever. Good wee omegas… why, we bonded young, nested early, and stuck with our alphas through thick and thin, an’ alphas… they were expected do the same. But nowadays, ye have a li’l heat in yer belly and find yourself a fella stick around two weeks for the mark clears ‘fore he bunks off the next. Sometimes sooner sure,” her voice takes on an edge of reprimand at the clear moral decay of recent times. “You promise me, Steven, that you won’t concern yourself with that sort. You find yourself a nice alpha to take care o’ ye, you hear?”

Steve concentrates on the feeling of scratchy wool encircling his palms, drawing them together, trapping him in this moment, in this conversation.

_Anything to end the embarrassment._

“I will, Nana,” Steve lies.

* * *

Two years later and without a permanent bonding contract in place, Steve undergoes his first heat alone, begging and pleading for the sweet relief of semi-anonymous alpha dick, just as God intended. He’d spent three days, crying in frustration, dripping in sweat and slick, his fingers desperately buried deep, thrusting and twisting, in a futile attempt to satisfy the crushing ache reverberating bone-deep in his body.

“A trial it be,” his mother had told him after, the sentiment echoed by Nana O’Neill. Every person has their cross to bear, and this was the burden of unbonded omegas until they settled down with their one true alpha for what was guaranteed to be a lifetime of boundless happiness and familial bliss, their satisfaction all the greater for having waited.

_Yeah… Like hell I’m going through that again,_ Steve doesn’t say, but the next time he feels the warm rustling of his imminent heat, he asks Bucky to help him discretely in a Jersey hotel room, so his family doesn’t find out.

“No bites,” Steve pants, hand pushing (pulling) Alpha away (closer) as Bucky’s knot swells painfully, blissfully tight. Bucky sinks his teeth into their tangled shirts rolled into a ball behind Steve’s head to stave off the overwhelming urge to bite the pliant omega beneath him.

Afterwards, Steve doesn’t look at Bucky as he pulls up his pants and rights his shirt, fastening his suspenders back into place. He pulls down the collar to check his neck in the mirror, finding the skin over the bonding gland unbroken, unblemished. “Thanks, Buck,” he murmurs into the quiet room, coughing to relieve some of the tension between them.

He watches Bucky’s reflection rise and dress, back turned towards him as well.

“Don’t mention it, Stevie.”

“I won’t.”

* * *

It becomes a semi-regular occurrence. Every three months or so, Steve and Bucky would hole up in either Bucky’s apartment or some hotel the next state over for a couple days to ride out Steve’s heat. His mother is suspicious, but the two are careful, always using prophylactics to prevent pregnancy as well as the internal mingling of their scents and never ever leaving any marks.

Most days, he’s grateful it’s Bucky, because Steve can trust him to keep his secrets, to respect his boundaries when it came to public displays of possession, but he knows what they have isn’t a permanent situation. One day, Bucky will find someone to love, someone real, and Steve won’t be able to count on him in his capacity as an alpha surrogate anymore.

Sometimes, he wishes it didn’t have to be like that.

He wishes he wasn’t so scrawny, so weak and sickly. He wishes he could have something else, someone who will be all his, like what his Gran – God rest her soul – had always talked about. But then he looks at Bucky laughing into his beer at something Steve had said and thinks, _Maybe this is enough. _

_For now._

* * *

Bucky is leaving, travelling some place the United States army won’t let Steve follow.

“The one-o-seventh. Sergeant James Barnes. Shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.”

“I should be going,” Steve mutters miserably. Just because he’s an omega doesn’t make him any less of a man or patriot, but even if he had been an alpha, either the asthma or bad knees alone would have disqualified him from service, much less the combination of the two together.

“Come on, man. My last night! Gotta get you cleaned up,” Bucky cajoles Steve, pulling him along. They’re going out, to dancing and the World Exposition of Tomorrow with two of the prettiest girls he could rustle up. Steve doesn’t know why Bucky even tries. No one wants a frail omega like him, for many of the same reasons Uncle Sam doesn’t want him either.

But when Steve realizes his girl for the evening – Bonnie – is an alpha, he knows why Bucky insisted on the double date. After tonight, he won’t be there for Steve, and he’s worried about his next heat, the first he will spend alone since he was seventeen and heartbreakingly desperate.

_Please Bucky,_ he had pleaded, delicate fingers wrapped around his friend’s wrist. _It’s either you or the anonymous personal ads on the back of the Sunday paper._

_That’s one way to get murdered or trafficked,_ Bucky had quipped, but he had relented, because it was for Steve, and Steve rarely asked anything of him unless it was an emergency.

And now… he is staring down the same dilemma without Bucky to bail him out.

Predictably, Bonnie isn’t interested, but Dr. Abraham Erskine is.

* * *

Steve has a new body now: broad and tall and strong, and for the first time in his life, he can run for miles, can breathe without feeling suffocated. He wonders how it affects his stamina in the bedroom and when he’ll have a chance to find out.

Probably soon if the looks he’s getting are any indication. Other people notice him now. There’s even a smart, brave, dangerously-sexy alpha named Peggy Carter who seems interested, if only Steve could find a way to express that the feeling is mutual.

But then Steve joins a war-bond-selling traveling sideshow as Captain America, and while on tour in the European theater, he learns that the one-o-seventh has been decimated, captured by Nazi forces on the western front. Sergeant James Barnes is MIA, whether dead or captured, Colonel Phillips doesn’t know, but as long as there is a chance, Steve knows what he has to do.

He goes against direct orders, jumps out of a plane, and saves his best friend along with his entire platoon.

* * *

It’s a year before Steve has his next heat, a rather pleasant side effect of Project Rebirth being their greatly-reduced frequency, but when he feels the familiar curl of warmth in his stomach, Steve and the Howling Commandos are benched for a week, holed up in a French town they had just liberated.

Steve is apprehensive, jittery, uncertain what other complications may arise from Project Rebirth, how his body might react to the rush of hormones, especially in the absence of his desired alpha. Peggy is still in Italy, of course – because timing has never been Steve’s friend – but Bucky is there, Steve is handsome now, and maybe… maybe they don’t have to hide anymore.

“You- you can bite me. If you want,” Steve gasps out, Bucky pounding rhythmically into his body, biting down hard on the pillow behind Steve’s head.

Bucky shakes his head, mouthing at the corner of the pillow. “You don’t want that,” his voice, usually warm and kind, sounds strained and hitching, almost anxious.

“I do,” Steve protests, turning his head to one side to bare his bonding gland.

Bucky thrusts in harder, stilling as his knot fills, and Steve gasps.

“Ask me again next time.”

* * *

There isn’t a next time.

Bucky dies on a mission three months later, falling to his death through a hole blasted into the train they had been ordered to commandeer. The mission is technically a success, but it feels like failure.

Colonel Phillips had been understanding but firm. “You have to keep a stiff upper lip, boy. Be strong for your men.”

He had liked Barnes well enough, but the old man is no stranger to death, not in his line of work. Still, he slips Steve a canister of bourbon and gives him the night off.

Steve quickly learns he can’t get drunk, another side effect of Project Rebirth. His metabolism burns through the alcohol before it can get him good and properly soused. That doesn’t bode well for other chemical substances. Like anesthesia. He hopes his advanced healing factor also tackles things like appendicitis.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Peggy tells him.

It’s a lie, and he tells her as much.

“Did you believe in your friend? Did you respect him?” she asks him. By the way Steve looks at her, she knows he did. “Then stop blaming yourself. Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice. He damn well must have thought you were worth it.”

Bucky did, but he was wrong. Dead wrong. Steve doesn’t tell Peggy that. “I’m going after Schmidt. I’m not gonna stop till all of Hydra is dead or captured,” he promises instead.

“You won’t be alone,” she replies.

_Yes… yes, I will,_ he thinks.

* * *

He avenges Bucky. He stops Red Skull and Hydra, but at a grave cost.

“Peggy, this is my choice,” he tells her, as he forces the plane down into the frigid depths of the Arctic.

He understands now. It’s his choice as it had been Bucky’s.

And this? Saving millions? It’s worth Bucky’s belief in Steve, his sacrifice. It will have to be.

The Valkyrie’s nose crashes into the waves, and ocean water rushes in, enveloping him in its cold embrace, freezing him to his core and flowing in through his nostrils, his mouth. He can’t breathe. He’s thirteen again, and he’s wheezing through asthma exacerbated by spring pollen. _Breathe, Stevie, just breathe._ He struggles against the cold, the shutdown of his brain and bodily functions, until there is nothing but the dark.

* * *

He wakes up nearly seventy years in the future. The war is long over; they won, but everyone he has ever known is dead or dying. Everything is different, but a few things haven’t changed:

  * Steve’s timing, as always, sucks.
  * Any future without Hydra, without fascism, is a victory, but it feels like he lost. Every. Goddamn. Day.

Steve hates all of it.

* * *

Nick Fury comes to him with a mission: The Avengers Initiative. Steve accepts even before he has time to review the dossier on his new team.

He does after the fact.

Thor Odinson, Alien prince of Asgard and the supposed God of Thunder.

Agent Natasha Romanoff, Codename: Black Widow, Highly-trained ex-KGB operative.

Agent Clint Barton, Codename: Hawkeye, Highly-trained S.H.I.E.L.D. operative and archer… which, okay a little weird to have such a backwards weapon, but Steve fights with a shield, so he can’t talk.

Dr. Bruce Banner, Codename: The Hulk, Injected with a reconstructed version of the super-soldier serum. Steve doesn’t know how to feel about that. It’s a dangerous formula after all, one that could have created the next Red Skull had they gotten the composition wrong in the worst way. The project should have died with Dr. Erskine, should have died with Captain America in the Arctic, but here he is.

And finally, Mr. Anthony Edward Stark, Codename: Iron Man.

_Stark_, he pauses on the familiar name._ As in Howard Stark._

He carefully examines the attached photo and finds the resemblance uncanny. He re-reads the description. For the first time since he woke up, there’s hope, a connection to his past that is still on active duty. He will be working with Howard’s son, a hero in his own right. Perhaps partaking in the Avengers Initiative isn’t such a bad idea after all.

…Then Steve watches the footage.

From the first press conference where Anthony first declares “I am Iron Man” through his rock star entrance at the opening of Stark Expo complete with vanity fireworks and an entire chorus line of dancers wearing next-to-nothing to his fortieth birthday where he got inexcusably wasted and fought War Machine, it’s all there in garish red-and-gold.

Mr. Anthony Edward “Tony” Stark is a dick.

In retrospect, having met Howard, Steve is uncertain why he’s so surprised. Like Howard, Tony is flashy, self-absorbed, selfish, and incredibly arrogant, but he unfortunately lacks the redeeming qualities that made his father worth having as a friend despite these less-desirable attributes. The son of a modest grocer and seamstress, Howard had grown up poor to become the self-made man who above all, served his country for the good of all, but not blindly so. He had flown Steve over enemy lines, against orders, no questions asked, so Steve could save Bucky, and then had tried to find him for years, even if he was too late in the end. For all that and more, Steve will always be grateful.

In contrast, Tony Stark is a spoiled overgrown man-child who grew up in the lap of luxury, riding Howard’s coattails to success. Everything he’s ever done, including Iron Man, has been for himself, to satisfy his ego and overwhelming hubris, to allay his own conscience by trying to undo the untold damage of his earlier years. In short, he is a living embodiment of everything wrong with the future, and Steve immediately dislikes him for it, projecting all his rage, his helplessness and despair, on a man he’s never met.

Because he is sure of one thing: A man like Tony Stark will never be a hero, not when the only thing he fights for is himself.

Steve says all this and more to Stark’s face the first chance he gets, on the Helicarrier after capturing Loki, when he slaps off the man’s friendly grasp on his shoulder.

“Back off!”

Stark doesn’t back down. Instead, his nostrils flare, taking in Steve’s scent, and he nearly bristles, responding to an omega’s command with predictable alpha insolence. “Oh, I’m starting to want you to make me.”

What the…? Is he– Is Stark flirting with him?

Steve wants to knock him down a peg, metaphorically and physically, so after trading a few barbs, some of which cut closer than either man wants to admit, he metes out a standing challenge.

“Put on the suit. Let’s go a few rounds.”

The timing is wrong, of course. A possessed Hawkeye cripples the Helicarrier to break out Loki, and they lose the Hulk and Thor temporarily and Agent Coulson permanently (or so he thinks). But they re-group, melding together as a team to take on the Chitauri threat. Steve is still not sold on Stark’s heroism. The man is an ass, but at least he’s on their side, and he _can_ fight, even if it’s only for his own glory.

…And then Stark has to prove him wrong by redirecting a missile through a wormhole, saving New York City and very nearly dying as a result, just as Steve had done decades earlier.

_Well. Shit._

* * *

Stark re-builds the damaged top floors of Stark Tower, renaming it Avengers Tower, after the team. He invites each one of them to live there, including Steve. Brooklyn rents being what they are nowadays, Steve accepts.

“This room is your’s,” Stark points to the blue-lit three-dimensional rendering of the rebuild. He taps it to select the room for expansion into the central workspace. He adds a king-sized bed before handing the controls to Steve. “You can decorate it however you want, but no clowns. That goes double for photos of Justin Hammer or any of his tacky merch. You know he tried to do a Playgirl spread a few years back? This was before prison, of course. Worst. Edition. Ever. I had to take little blue pills for a month after seeing the centerfold.”

Well, that was a self-afflicted problem if ever Steve heard one. “Then why did you buy it?”

“Buy? You misunderstand me. Hammer had the thing blown up and printed, matted and framed, to be displayed in his orgy room.”

“His what?”

“Orgy room,” Stark repeats nonchalantly, as if that is a normal room one would have in their house. “The Avengers orgy room is here,” he reaches over Steve’s shoulder to tap a large space located just below penthouse level. “It’ll be outfitted with the standard items: bondage equipment, a sex swing, a cushion pit. You know, nothing too crazy yet. Any special requests?”

Steve’s brain chooses that moment to short circuit.

Stark waits a beat then starts to chuckle. “Just kidding, Cap. That’s our training hall. I couldn’t resist fucking with you a little. I mean, can you blame me? You’re adorable when flustered.”

“Pardon?”

“Back to your room,” he shrinks the training hall and expands Steve’s room once again, then backs off to allow him creative space. “You have free reign on design. Go nuts.”

“Uh…” Steve fumbles with the controls, accidentally adding a kitchen sink in one corner.

“If you want a wet-bar, that’s not it,” Stark steps in once again, sliding his fingers across a selection bar down the right side. “You can scroll through items here, select by tapping, then drag over to your room and drop it wherever. Double tap to delete.”

Steve considers his room, double-tapping on the king-sized bed.

“Um, Cap? You have to sleep somewhere.”

“Don’t need anything that big. This will do,” he drags in an extended twin, similar to ones he had in the barracks back in the army. It’s familiar in a way, comforting.

Stark doesn’t understand.

“I may have been joking about the orgy room, but you can still have guests over, as long as you clear them with Jarvis. No one expects you to live like a monk under a vow of chastity,” he says, in all seriousness, placing a hand on the small of Steve’s back to draw his attention. Steve stiffens, and Stark drops the contact. “This is your home, and I want you to be comfortable here.”

“This is fine,” Steve insists. “I used to sleep on the ground back in the war. A real bed might as well be the Ritz.”

“Could I at least sell you on a queen? Not sure if you’ve noticed, but you’re much broader since the days you were Private Steve Rogers. Before Rebirth.”

“You saw my file?”

“…Yeah.”

Steve narrows his eyes at the other man in suspicion. “Why does that sound like a lie?”

Stark coughs. “Oh hey, I wanted to show you something else. Fury complained about all the punching bags you’ve been destroying over at S.H.I.E.L.D., so I redesigned a set for super-soldiers. Should hold up a bit better than the standard ones.” He selects a punching bag, blowing it up to show specifications. “Cool, huh?”

Steve is not an idiot. He knows a diversion when he sees one, and this is a rather transparent attempt, but he decides to drop the inquiry for now. The man just offered him free housing in downtown Manhattan. He’s not about to take him to task over such a small detail that ultimately mattered little. So what if Stark has read his file? Steve has already seen Stark’s file, and tournabout is fair play.

_Compulsive behavior. Self-destructive tendencies. Textbook narcissism. Recruitment assessment for Avenger Initiative: Tony Stark not recommended._

It wasn’t inaccurate, as far as Steve could tell. Natasha is good at her job.

Still, he remembers Stark in free-fall, Stark broken and presumed dead, Stark who is literally housing them all, free of charge, giving him a home, a place to belong in the new century.

“Okay, if you insist. I’ll get the queen,” he finally acquiesces.

“Excellent.”

* * *

Turns out, there are worst things than living with the Avengers. In fact, it’s quite the upgrade over his accommodations at the Triskelion.

While Steve had often felt out of place among the S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives on base – actually that much hasn’t changed at Avengers Tower, the future being what it is – at least living in Avengers Tower allows him to grow close to Thor and Natasha.

“You Midgardians are so tiny and pitiful, but you are the least pitiful of them all, Steve Rogers,” Thor congratulates him after they spar to a draw sans their signature weapons.

Steve rolls out the ache in his shoulders and grabs a water bottle, tossing one to Thor as well who downs the beverage in a single swig, having taken it as the drinking competition it clearly wasn’t.

“Thanks… I think,” referring to the match more than the backhanded compliment. It wasn’t often Steve had an opportunity to train with someone who could equal his raw power outside of their missions, so he appreciated Thor’s inhuman strength and stamina. Unlike any of the others, he never had to hold back with Thor, and it is so much more satisfying punching out his frustrations on something that could fight back.

Thor crushes the bottle, beaming down at Steve. “You are most welcome.”

His relationship with Natasha involved a different kind of training.

Steve strikes at reduced strength, but Natasha counters, grasping his fist and using his own momentum to flip around and disorient him before swiping his feet out from under him. She had long learned that reactionary attacks were the only way to bring down Steve.

“Did you do anything fun last Saturday?” she asks, when she has him temporarily pinned.

Steve easily breaks her hold, rolling away to a stand. “Getting caught up on music. Have you heard of Elvis? He’s pretty good.”

“You know, Sarah from Accounting is single,” she attacks, twisting her body around his to bring him down again in a pre-emptive strike. It says something about his state of mind that she is successful. “And so is Andrew from HR. He’s cute.”

He’s also born in 1989.

Natasha must feel the unease bracing his limbs or maybe it’s because he hasn’t shaken her off yet, because she disentangles herself from him and says, “You need to get back out there. Date around a little. Find something in this time period you might like for a change, because you’re stuck here.”

He sits up and rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.” He’s got the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. and seventy years of music to catch up on, which leaves no time for dwelling on dead friends or lost opportunities or dating.

Especially dating.

Steve can run for miles and barely break a sweat, so what’s to stop him from running from all of it?

After all, what’s more important: saving the world from alien invasion and human cruelty, or the fact that his only dates for any given Saturday night are Ben & Jerry? Natasha needs a little perspective.

Though, to be fair, Steve suspects Nick Fury is behind her interference with his (lack of) social life. He must have ordered her to handle him, specifically his ‘isolation and growing disconnection with the world.’ (Yes, he read his own file.) Fury must have thought Steve needed someone to ground him, to give him something to come home to after their missions. It would be a nice sentiment if he didn’t know that the only reason S.H.I.E.L.D. cared at all was to maximize his usefulness. Give the dancing monkey some friends and a few enrichment toys and maybe it won’t kill itself trying to escape its enclosure.

Still, he likes to think Natasha’s friendship is genuine regardless of her orders.

As for the others, Clint doesn’t live at the Tower, but he does show up for meetings and occasional team dinners. Steve had asked Natasha why she didn’t take her own advice, canting his head in the archer’s direction. The two get along so well, and they clearly share many inside jokes, so what’s stopping them? Natasha had simply stared at him as if he had grown a second head and told him they were fundamentally incompatible and only coworkers. She barely even liked Clint, which was undercut by the way she caught the pirozhki Clint threw at her head. They were warm and flaky and from the only Russian bakery Natasha had deemed acceptable in the City.

Steve’s eyebrow quirks up.

“Shut up,” Natasha deadpans as she digs into the savory meat bun.

Being more of a scientist than a fighter, Banner spends most of his free time down in the labs with Stark, though he is friendly enough when Steve does see him. He surprisingly gets on quite well with Thor.

“Banner exhibits the same passion and drive for scientific progress as Jane,” Thor had said by way of explanation.

And then there’s Stark himself.

Steve tries, but they butt heads more often than not.

“You take that back! You will not besmirch the good name of AC/DC.” Eyes wild and sparkling with a touch of mania, Stark gestures to Jarvis to turn up the damnable racket._ “Shoot to Thrill_ is a masterpiece!”

Steve tries to plug his ears. “It’s noise! You can’t even understand the lyrics!”

Stark cups an ear in his direction. “What? I can’t hear you over the sound of all this awesome!”

“Jarvis, please!” Steve calls out to the AI, who takes pity on him and reduces the volume to a less ear-splitting level. “Thank you. Now play some Billie Holiday.”

“How about something recorded in my life time?”

“See, this is why your generation went deaf in their thirties.”

“Well, your generation has been deaf for at least thirty years, Sophia Petrillo.”

Steve’s brows draw together. “Is that… is that an actress or…?”

Stark sighs, rubbing one hand down his face. “She’s the oldest and most curmudgeonly of the Golden Girls. At least catch up to the eighties, Cap.”

There’s the high-pitched hiss of a soda being opened, and both turn towards the kitchen to find Clint staring at them, leaning up against the fridge in purposeful repose.

“…Not that there’s anything wrong with being deaf,” Steve amends, internally wincing.

“Yeah. No offense, Clint,” Stark adds.

Clint takes a deep draught from the can, gulping loudly and smacking his lips to exaggerate his presence.

“Fuck you guys.”

Okay, maybe they deserved that, but it’s not Steve’s fault. It’s Stark’s conceited manner of speaking, his flippant attitude, how he somehow makes everything about himself (both the problem occasionally and the solution always) that really grates against the very fabric of Steve’s being. But mostly, he hates how the man wields the future like a bludgeon, spouting off pop culture references Steve could never hope to understand then declaring himself the victor when Steve was stuck on whether ‘Human Torch’ was an insult (is he saying he’s hot as in attractive or that he destroys everything he touches – who knows with Stark) and how to effectively counter it.

Natasha had an altogether different view of their rivalry.

“If you want Stark, I’m sure he’ll say yes. He has unresolved daddy issues, and you are his father’s contemporary.”

Steve’s butter knife pauses mid-air, the mayonnaise plopping down in a lump onto one side of what Clint had taken to calling his ‘afternoon snack-wich.’

“Really?” is the only response he manages. That’s her suggestion after listening to his five-point breakdown on why Stark is a disaster and how he’s going to get them all killed someday if he is not stopped?

And Steve had thought Natasha was supposed to be an excellent judge of character.

She leans up against the kitchen island. “Yes really. I compiled the report on his psychology myself, of which you’ve received a copy. He has a classic case of severe daddy issues leading to compulsive, self-destructive behavior,” she replies, matter-of-factly, as if that had been the core of his objections to the ridiculous match. “And you like him in spite of all that.”

Clint concurs from across the counter. “Yeah, as much fun as it is to watch you and Tony dance around the issue, just fuck and get it out of your system. Speaking as a fellow omega, five weeks of foreplay is long enough.”

“Clint,” Natasha signals him to cut it out before turning back to Steve. “I’m not saying you have to get a bonding contract, but the sexual tension between you two is palpable. The fog of pheromones alone–”

“That’s the stench of disgust,” Steve interrupts.

Natasha clearly doesn’t believe him, and neither does anyone else.

“It doesn’t smell like disgust,” Banner pipes up from his seat on the couch next to Thor in the adjacent open-concept den.

“Not you, too.” Steve knows it’s bad strategy to fight a war on two fronts, but sometimes a man doesn’t have a choice.

Clint chooses that moment to further cement his alliance with Natasha and Banner. “I don’t know. I think you’d be cute together.”

“You eat chips off the floor,” Steve points out. “You have forfeited all high ground in terms of what qualifies as a good idea.”

But the opposition is unfazed and also an asshole. “A lot of discoveries have happened since you’ve been on ice. Chief of which: The five second rule. If food falls on the ground, you have up to five seconds to save it. Food-borne illness needs at least 5.1 seconds to jump aboard any tasty vessel.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “The science on that is highly suspect.”

Clint challenges him. “Whose side are you on exactly? Because I’m on Team Cap-Needs-to-Remove-that-Stick-from-His-Ass-and-Replace-it-with-Stark’s-Dick. Now who’s with me?”

When no one else cops to being on Team CNtRtSfHAaRiwSD, Clint nudges Natasha, “Don’t even pretend you aren’t a founding member.” He turns to Steve, ratting her out with little preamble, “It was her idea.”

Caught in a lie of omission, Natasha rolls her eyes and raises her hand in solidarity with her traitorous best friend.

Steve sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and massaging his closed eyes.

Clint isn’t finished. “Come on, Banner. I may be deaf, but I can hear the sounds of silent agreement coming from your direction.”

Bruce doesn’t raise his hand, but the Asgardian sitting next to him does.

That shocks Steve. “Et tu, Thor?”

Thor is sheepish at the admission. “The loud mortal makes a compelling case.”

For a group of superheroes that ostensibly counts two top spies in its number, Steve thinks they sure have a lot of trouble parsing contempt and attraction.

* * *

“I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Stark tells him not too long after.

It surprises Steve that of the two of them, Stark is the first one to extend the proverbial olive branch, throwing into question which of them is the bigger man. Steve stands up from his seat along the benches bordering the walls of the training hall, his stature dwarfing Stark.

Nope, it’s still Steve.

“We don’t have to be friends, but we should at least be able to be in the same room without threatening to violate the Geneva Conventions if we are going to have to work together,” he continues, meeting Steve’s steady gaze.

Steve crosses his arms across his broad chest. “What do you suggest?”

“A clean slate. We start over.” Tony sticks out his hand for a shake. “Tony Stark.”

Steve accepts. “Steve Rogers.”

“Nice to meet you,” but Stark can’t help adding, “Now to lean in for the traditional exchange of cheek kisses.”

“How about we not?”

* * *

Steve blames his incredibly poor timing, or the ice, or maybe it’s that he finally feels somewhat comfortable after too damn long, but his heat hits him like a sucker punch a few weeks later.

Bruce and Clint are omegas like him. Natasha is gone on a mission for Fury. He can’t proposition the Hulk for obvious reasons, and Thor’s people don’t have a secondary gender. He doesn’t know anyone else.

Correction: he knows one other person, but it’s a safe harbor of last resort.

But he’s already naked and writhing on the sheets, making them damp with sweat and other less-savory fluids. He feels another painful twinge wrack his body, residual spasms echoing throughout in the aftermath. Dr. Erskine had cautioned that the serum amplifies everything inside him, including _this_ apparently.

His hands are clammy and trembling, unable to dial Stark’s personal phone number, which is either impressive or appalling considering it’s preprogrammed on speed dial, so he calls out to Jarvis for help. Stark picks up immediately, his disembodied voice booming down from the ceiling.

_Like an angel,_ his heat-frayed mind supplies, and that’s when Steve knows he’s well and truly losing it.

“Cap, Jarvis says you’re in trouble. Resting Heart Rate 120, basal temperature 100.2 degrees and rising, respiratory rate… look, none of it is good.”

Still, Steve struggles with the request. “Stark… I’m an omega. This is… well, you know…”

For the love of God, Stark is a genius; does Steve really have to spell it out for him?

Thankfully, he does catch on before Steve is forced to utter the terrible words. “Your heat.” There’s a pause. “To be clear, this is what you want? You’re asking to… with me? During your heat cycle?” Does Stark sound punched-out breathless, or is that just Steve’s hormone-addled imagination acting up again?

Wait; there was a question in there. He replays Stark’s words in his mind, without the unhelpful commentary from his inner monologue.

_Is this what you want?_

It’s something Steve doesn’t _not_ want, which circumstances being what they are, is as good as it’s going to get.

So he nods, and when that fails to register because this is not a video call and Stark can’t see him, he verbally confirms: “Yeah.”

There’s another pause, “Alright, Cap,” followed shortly after by a sharp knock at the door.

_That was quick._

Stark hasn’t invented teleportation… yet. He must have hit the ground running when the call came through. Then again, this _is_ sex, and the man has a certain reputation.

“Stark? That you?”

The door opens, and the man of the hour steps through, locking it behind him. He’s disheveled, probably hasn’t showered for a couple days with grease smeared along one cheek and hair sticking in odd directions, but he’s here, and he positively radiates alpha. Steve nearly weeps with relief, letting out a low keen.

Stark’s nostrils flare at the tantalizing scent, heavy in the closed room, and his pupils are so dilated, his eyes are nearly black. “I think, considering what’s about to happen, you should call me Tony.”

He strips off his pants on the way to the bed, leaving his black tank on. Then, he pushes Steve onto his back, tears open a condom to roll over his erection, consumes Steve’s whimpers in a blisteringly-hot kiss, and slides home.

It’s different than it had been with Bucky. Bucky had been gentle but slightly awkward, their coupling born of necessity and distinguished by an almost-tender friendship. Sex with Tony is nothing like that. He’s passionate, overwhelming and claiming. His hands and lips roam, exploring the territory of Steve’s body from the curve of his spine down to that of his thighs and over his chest traversing south to kiss the quiver of his abdominals, leaving no inch neglected.

And when he finally takes Steve’s weeping cock in hand, stroking it with the timing of his thrusts, Steve thinks this might be heaven. Calling Tony has to be one of his better decisions, his brain supplies, and it says something about his state of mind when no dissenting voice protests the assessment.

As his knot swells, Tony sucks on Steve’s bonding gland along the plane of shoulder near his collarbone, laving it with his tongue and grazing it lightly with his teeth. It feels so good, the first good thing in this century, that Steve moans and shutters, clenching down on Tony’s growing knot inside him. He’s so close.

Then Tony sinks his teeth in, and it’s a lightning strike of pleasure and desire fulfilled, the sensation overwhelming Steve’s senses, crowding out any conscious thought. He comes in thick ropes, painting the space between their bodies, and feels Tony stiffen as he spills into him shortly after.

Tony collapses on top of him, then instinctively rolls them both onto their side facing each other, so as not to crush Steve in the post-coital afterglow as he waits for his knot to recede so they can go again.

And again.

And again.

All in all, it takes three days for Steve to re-emerge from his super-charged heat-induced stupidity, but when he does, he’s absolutely furious.

“What the hell, Stark?!” He palms his aching bonding gland, pressing against it to sharpen the sensation. He deserves this pain. Hell, Stark deserves this pain, too.

Sitting up from his recline in Steve’s bed, Tony is perplexed. “What? I thought you wanted to be with me during your heat cycle. Earlier, you said… Are you- are you having any regrets that we… about the sex?” He’s up now and reaching for his discarded pants, almost tripping in his haste, his shoulders slumped in the universal sign of disappointment.

Steve is not having it, not after what Tony has done. “I’m not talking about the sex. Of course I agreed to the sex, but you had no right biting me.” No one had ever bitten him before. Not even…

He remembers kind blue eyes, crinkling at the corners when the smile reached his eyes.

No.

Tony looks back over his shoulder as he fastens his pants. “But… I’m sorry. Can we backtrack a little? When you said you wanted me during your heat… what did you mean?”

Did Steve really have to clarify basic tenets of consent for him? By the look on the other man’s face, the answer to that is a resounding ‘Yes,’ especially if they were ever going to do this again. Which is highly doubtful.

“Yes to the sex. Yes to using prophylactics – thank God you didn’t take any initiative on that–”

Tony has the gall to look insulted. “Hey, we’re nowhere near there yet, and I resent the insinuation I would take advantage of you like–”

“Well you did!” Steve rages back. “I never agreed to public marks.”

Tony throws his hands up in frustration. “But that’s part of…” he stops suddenly, the fight draining out of him. “Are you really that ashamed to be with me, even for a single heat cycle?” For a moment, his bravado stripped away, Tony might even sound a little miserable.

Steve massages his head to clear out the last of his residual heat, wishing he could also shake off whatever bonding bullshit – probably oxytocin – is causing him to feel _sorry_ for the bastard. He is moderately unsuccessful, as proven by the softening of his tone when he speaks yet again.

“That’s not the point. The point is that I didn’t agree to a bite bond.”

“Look, I’m really sorry about that. I assumed that was included as part of the whole you wanting to be with me during your heat cycle thing. It hasn’t been a big deal for other partners, but I can see that it was – _is_ – to you, and I’m real sorry I didn’t clear it with you first before I went ahead and– I read the situation wrong, but you know… bright side, Cap: at least it’s temporary,” Tony sighs. “It’s a week of high-neck shirts. Two, tops. Nobody has to know if you don’t want them to. And you don’t have to worry about me. I don’t kiss and tell.”

It’s true, but Steve scowls anyway, rubbing at the tingling mark.

Only two weeks, and then it will be like nothing ever happened,

* * *

It isn’t going away.

It had been a month, and unlike all other injuries he’s sustained, including a handful of rather impressive ones, the bite had simply healed to a raised reddened patch then persisted.

Worse yet, his body had somehow missed the memo that Tony and Steve didn’t actually belong to each other, based on the chemically-induced feelings of contentment and longing it had the nerve to release in the other man’s presence. It’s nothing but hormones, Steve thinks, and he has a lot of experience suppressing those. He was raised Catholic for Christ’s sake. This skill should be in his wheelhouse.

However, when Tony stands a bit too close or leans into Steve’s space, it feels so good, Steve has to snap at him to re-introduce physical, if not emotional, distance.

“I don’t want any,” Steve refuses Tony’s offer of popcorn with M&M’s during their next team building exercise: Movie Night.

Tony pushes the bowl closer to him, a whiff of buttery goodness permeating the air, making Steve’s stomach grumble with interest. “But Cap, it’s your favorite.”

_Shake. Shake._

Steve gets up and moves to the other side of Thor. “You have trouble with the word ‘no,’ don’t you?”

Tony visibly recoils, keeping his unfairly-delicious movie snacks to himself for the rest of the night. So, when Steve goes to bed hungry that night, having pointedly refused his customary sixth meal, he tells himself it feels like victory.

Over time, Tony eventually gets the message and slowly disengages from Steve, to the latter’s distress. Steve doesn’t complain… much. It’s what he wants, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

And then three months after Steve’s heat, Tony brings home a tall blonde _Irish_ omega, Meredith McCall, for a romp in the Avengers Tower.

Emotionally, Steve is devastated. He can smell her on him and he on her, their musky scents intimately co-mingling on each other’s skin. Steve’s body screams _BETRAYAL_ and _ABANDONMENT_ even when he logically knows it’s not Tony’s fault. They’re not together; he’s not even aware of Steve’s not-so-insignificant problem.

Still…

“Ma’am, I would suggest you not hang your hopes on this one. He’s a faithless alpha,” he tells her when they both finally enter the kitchen seeking sustenance and liquids after what has to be a marathon session of sex, considering he hasn’t seen either since the morning before. Not that he’s keeping track of Tony’s movements or anything. Steve’s simply observant.

Steve knows he’s being unreasonable. He doesn’t care.

Meredith is caught off-guard at the anger lacing his tone.

“So… I’m just going to go now. Tony? Call me.” She gives Tony a peck on the cheek.

“Sure thing, honey,” Tony says, not breaking eye contact with Steve. And just like that, she exits, following Jarvis’s instructions to the elevator.

Tony waits until he hears the soft close of the sliding doors. “What the hell is your problem?” he inquires with acid in his voice.

_You._

“Excuse me?” Tony is gobsmacked.

Damn. Steve must have said that out loud, but it’s the truth, so he doubles-down. “You heard me.”

“Care to specify why you find me so off-putting exactly? What about me rubs you the wrong way?”

“Everything. Your whole… playboy persona. All of it.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. What I do in my private life is no one’s business but my own and that of my sexual partners.”

“I was one of them,” Steve snarls before he can stop himself.

“Is that what this is about?” Tony scratches at the hair of his goatee. “I may not be a gentleman, but I’m not a complete cad, at least not to super soldiers I live with and have to depend on to have my back. It’s been _months_, Cap, and we weren’t even dating to begin with,” he exclaims, exasperated. “I’m not a fucking eunuch.”

“Yes, I can see how that would be a paradox,” Steve snips, crossing his arms across his broad chest.

Tony grits his teeth, standing up straight to his fullest height then looking up to meet Steve’s eye. “I looked up to you as a kid, you know that.”

“Yeah, and not much has changed,” Steve bites back, looming over him.

Tony ignores the interruption. “I had a whole set of your reels, even the one where you ricocheted your shield against a truck and almost decapitated three SS officers in one swing. That one took a while to track down. Captain America was my hero. You know when you asked me to… it was like a wet dream come true. High school Tony would have given his left nut to have a shot at you, especially when I later learned you were an omega.”

Steve sounds scandalized. “Weren’t you like 15 in high school?”

“12, and I had terrible judgment. I was just a kid with a crush on Captain America. I didn’t know Steve Rogers would turn out to be such a giant asshole. That was unexpected.”

Steve deflates. He knows he’s in the wrong this time; he just– “Tony, I’m sorry I said that to your guest. That was rude, and it isn’t fair to you.”

“What’s with you really? I know you don’t want me, so why act all weirdly jealous when I bring someone home? Is it that you want your own date and are upset that I have the charm and raw charisma to manage a full social calendar? Because take it from me: There are people lining up around the block willing to show you a good time. Natasha has been – well, hinting is not the correct terminology – been exceedingly and increasingly blunt about trying to get you laid. Because she thinks you need to chill out before you pop a blood vessel, and frankly, she’s not wrong. You don’t have to be on your heat to have fun, Cap.”

“It’s not that. I don’t want a date. Well, not just with anyone.”

“Then what…” Tony starts to ask, but Steve has already pulled down his collar, showing the bond bite, still unfaded from their time together months before. Tony sucks in a breath. “Um… Steve? Is that…”

“Yep.”

“You got a scarification tattoo of my bond bite?” he finishes, barely able to process what he is seeing, what can’t possibly be true. His voice is incredibly steady for someone with a face on the verge of panic, eyes already darting to clock all possible exits. “Jesus, how many times did you have to cut into that for it to take at all?”

“What? No! Of course not. I’m not crazy. It’s your original bite, and it’s not fading, and as long as it’s here, I- I can’t… my body insists we’re bonded. Indefinitely.”

“How is that even possible? It’s been _months_. That’s… what did your prior partners do to get it to go away?” Tony babbles, his hands grasping at metaphorical straws. “More time? Distance? A magical macguffin that–”

“There hasn’t been anyone else!” Steve cuts through, trying to make him stop, to make him understand.

By the pallor of Tony’s face, Steve thinks he gets it, but then Tony gulps, his voice comes out a bit too high. “But you’re like 95. You’re telling me you’ve never…”

“94 and the seventy years on ice don’t count. Also, I’m not a virgin. Jesus Christ, stop looking at me like you’re about to pass out. I’ve had sex before, but we- we were always careful. He never marked me, even before Project Rebirth. Because I didn’t want to, and by the time I was maybe sort of open to it, he was dead, and I went on ice,” his voice grows weaker. “And that one time with you… it was the first heat I’ve had since I woke up, since… him.”

“Barnes?” Tony guesses.

Steve feels a lump in his throat at the name. He can’t do this. “Maybe it’s best I move out for the time being. To Brooklyn or… or just away.”

“No,” Tony insists, “I’m not about to displace you from your home. I’ll… I’m going to my Malibu mansion. Ask Jarvis to call me when you– when the Avengers need Iron Man, yeah?”

_Don’t leave,_ a small internal voice cries, but Steve nods, unable to trust himself with words.

“And Steve?” There’s a beat where their eyes meet once again. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me too, Tony.”

* * *

Tony leaves the following morning, fabricating some thin excuse about having to help straighten out the West Coast division of Stark Industries R&D department.

Steve is relieved. He doesn’t miss him in the slightest.

Not even a little.

“…and your attitude on the subject is unconscionable. You should apologize to me and everyone here,” Steve sticks a pointed finger against Clint’s chest, then to each of his teammates in turn.

“I am certain Stark will return post-haste once his business is complete,” Thor interjects.

Steve rounds on him. “What? This has nothing to do with Tony.”

“You just verbally dressed down Clint for ten minutes for being five minutes late to a team-building exercise,” Natasha points out, stepping in front of Clint.

“And? It was disrespectful of everyone’s time.”

“And yesterday, you snapped at Thor for drinking milk from the carton even though he was going to finish it anyway, and Jarvis had already re-ordered another six,” she continues.

Thor nods. “Aye, I saved the effort of washing a mug.”

Steve visibly flinches. “I apologized for that one.”

“Even Banner has taken to sleeping on a cot in the lab because he knows you won’t go down there.” Natasha grasps Steve’s elbow. “You know I love you, so keep that in mind for the next three minutes: It’s been six weeks; of course you miss him, but get your head back in the game. Buck up, soldier. This is only temporary.”

“He’s not coming back,” Steve’s voice is steady even as he internally wilts.

She shakes her head. “Stark is incapable of staying away for much longer. I’m sure he’ll get over whatever fight you two had.”

“No, you don’t get it. This move? It’s permanent. He took all his bots: DUM-E, U, even Butterfingers,” he steeples his fingers against his forehead. “I’m only supposed to call him for Avengers business.”

“What did he do?”

“…Nothing.”

“Okay, what did you do?” she amends.

Steve sighs, ruffling the hair at his temple. “Nobody did anything. We just needed…”

“Please tell me you aren’t about to say ‘space.’ That’s what people always say as a precursor to a breakup.”

“Hey, at least you got to keep the house and kids in the divorce,” Clint interjects.

“Clint!” Natasha admonishes him.

“What? This just means that now we get two Christmases this year. I’m angling for a virtual reality gaming room.” Clint is blasé as he suggests, “We can convert Stark’s old bedroom. It’s not like he’s using it anymore.”

Steve’s reply is swift and unnecessarily harsh: “Absolutely NOT.”

Clint smiles. “See, you got it bad. Call him and apologize.”

“There is nothing to apologize for.”

He shrugs. “Apologize anyway, even if it’s not your fault, because dude, you flew off the handle about a milk carton, and if you won’t, I’ll call Stark myself and beg for forgiveness on your behalf. I am not above stealing your Captain America cowl and imitating your speech patterns.”

“He’s not going to do that,” Natasha glares at the man, daring him to disagree.

He doesn’t take the hint. “I will. Don’t test me.”

Clint doesn’t have to resort to petty thievery and identity theft. Four days later, the Mandarin strikes, bombing Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in Los Angeles and threatening more attacks to follow. Happy is gravely injured, his condition listed as critical by the press, prompting an unhinged Tony to issue a personal challenge to the Mandarin, giving out his Malibu home address in the process.

“Tony, what the hell were you thinking!” Steve rages in lieu of a greeting when the man picks up his call.

“I was thinking why search for the guy responsible when I can have him come to me.”

Steve sucks in a steadying breath. “You gave out your home address. On national television. You told every villain on the planet, including the Mandarin you personally threatened, where to find you.”

“It wasn’t my finest hour, sure,” Tony admits.

“You are ridiculous. I’m coming to get you.”

“I’ll be fine, Cap. I’m Iron Man, remember? I’ll have the suit on me at all times. I’m talking to you from inside one right now.”

No, that is still unacceptable. “Get out of your house. Go somewhere safe, maybe a S.H.I.E.L.D. safehouse. I’ll send you the coordinates where I will pick you up.”

“That really won’t be necessary.”

“One hour, Tony. I’m taking your Quinjet.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“And I don’t hear you packing,” Steve chastises him. “You know what? Don’t pack. You’re a billionaire; you can afford a second toothbrush. Just move. Get yourself out of there.”

“I’m not leaving.”

Tony’s right of course, but not in the way he originally meant it.

After Steve hangs up, he passes the living room on the way to the elevator up to the rooftop hangar when he stops. Natasha and Banner are watching the news as multiple missiles hit Tony’s Malibu mansion and the cliff supporting it, and the entire structure falls into the Pacific. Iron Man fails to emerge.

Steve drops to his knees, staring at his hands as his vision fuzzes. Distantly, he hears someone crying and then there are hands and arms draping around his shoulders, holding him close and tight. His heart twists in his chest, and his breath fails him, coming out in choking gasps.

Anthony Edward “Tony” Stark, otherwise known as the superhero Iron Man, is dead.

* * *

His bite bond doesn’t fade, even now that the alpha who administered it has passed. Steve stares at his reflection sans shirt, palming the raised mark, and for once he doesn’t begrudge its presence.

* * *

Steve isn’t doing well. He’s holed up in the training hall, making a decent effort of trying to destroy the Stark-issued punching bags Tony had designed for him. It’s anyone’s guess what will give out first: the reinforced Kevlar or Steve’s knuckles.

Thor stomps up to him, not even bothering to mask his heavy footfalls. Steve ignores the interruption, until Thor places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

He tenses, his fists stilling.

“My mother passed recently. My brother as well. Both murdered by Dark Elves,” Thor begins, lightly squeezing Steve’s shoulder. “It has been… difficult. I could not stay in Asgard. There are too many memories, too many regrets.”

He pats him on the back. “If you need to talk…”

_Stiff upper lip, boy. Be strong for your men._

“I don’t need to talk. Tony is– was a friend, but it’s not the first time I’ve lost one of those.”

“In my experience, losing a cherished… _friend_ does not get easier with practice,” Thor says gently, stepping away to give Steve space. “It is an open invitation, Captain.”

* * *

Steve’s knuckles crack before the punching bag.

He barely notices, until the blood runs in rivulets down his wrist and drips onto the wood floors.

They heal within the hour, good as new. So, he hangs up another bag and starts all over again.

* * *

Steve is going to kill him.

Tony resurfaces off the coast of Florida less than a week later, saving the President with the aid of War Machine in a dazzling display of heroism and pyrotechnics on national television.

He’s been alive the whole time, and he never thought to give any of the Avengers (i.e. Steve) a heads-up.

Tony is a dead man walking.

Because Steve is definitely going to kiss him – kill him – Steve meant _kill_.

…Right?

* * *

The first thing Tony says to him, from the safety of a thousand mile buffer between his throat and Steve’s fist, is: “I know you’re angry, Cap.”

“Damn straight.”

“But I had to stay dead to catch the Mandarin, and… it kind of worked, so…”

_Hell no; he is not getting off that easy._

“You were dead, Stark. For a week.”

“I got better.”

“And then you didn’t call for another week–”

“Hey, I had surgery,” Tony babbles. “To repair my heart. No more arc reactor, but I need some time to heal, and the doctor says stress and possible retaliatory beat-downs are bad for my recovery–”

“You had surg–”

“And I saved the President, Steve. The President. I’m pretty sure that means that as Captain America, you are required by law to grant me a get-out-of-one-argument free card, which I would like to invoke at this time.”

Steve audibly groans, rubbing the line of his eyes. “I’m not looking to argue right now.”

“Okay; well then, good. If that’s the case, I’m taking back my hall pass. Saving that for a rainy day.”

There’s a beat of silence where Steve puffs out his cheeks and blows out slow, counting down from three. He barely makes it to two before he gives in.

“Just come home, Tony.”

“Well, you see, Cap; that’s a little tricky at the moment, considering it’s sitting at the bottom of the ocean in pieces.”

“I don’t mean Malibu.”

He can hear Tony suck in a breath, then: “When I– when you thought I was dead, did it disappear?”

“Does it matter? I missed you. I miss my friend,” Steve refuses to beg, but: “Come home, okay?”

“Alright.”

* * *

The day of Tony’s arrival back in New York is Steve’s best day in the future. He feels giddy and a touch light-headed, warmth spreading outward from his chest when he hears the Quinjet touch down atop the tower. Ten minutes later, Tony exits the elevator to greet Steve, Natasha, and Clint in the living room.

“Welcome home, Tony,” Steve claps him on the back, failing to hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah. Thank God you’re back,” Clint declares rather dramatically, embracing the man quickly before holding him out at arms’ length. “Never ever leave again. Steve was a tyrant without you. Completely, unabashedly inconsolable and took it out on the rest of us.”

“Stop exaggerating. I wasn’t ‘inconsolable,’” Steve argues.

“Nat asked to spend an extended weekend at my place last month just to get out of your war path. She needed a break.”

“Natasha, is that true?” Steve turns his gaze on her, but she’s looking at Clint, betrayal plain on her face.

“I thought spies were supposed to have discretion. Spies _and_ friends, of which you are both.” Then Natasha places her hands on her hips and revises, “Were.”

Clint doesn’t even flinch at the demotion. “Friends don’t drink all their friends’ coffee without refilling the pot.”

“I thought you were already up. It was like 10am.”

“On a Saturday. That might as well be the crack of dawn.”

Steve is still reeling from the knowledge he managed to drive Natasha away, but when? She hasn’t been gone in a while, not since… “Was that the time you said Fury was sending you on a black ops mission? You told me it required complete communication blackout.” His eyes widen at another realization: “Fury _vouched_ for you.”

The bastard lied to him. For Natasha. Because he had been so horrible without Tony he scared off an operative who could withstand literal torture.

She looks away from him. “I called in a favor.”

_Had he really been that bad?_

Tony clears his throat. “So… I’m just going to get settled. Take a shower maybe.”

“Yeah, your room is exactly as you left it, like a goddamn shrine. Cap wouldn’t even let me repurpose it for a virtual reality game room,” Clint says, adding unhelpfully: “How awesome would that have been, Tony? Imagine: You could be having sex with virtual Cap every night in a variety of positions and settings, instead of regular Cap in missionary and only in your dreams.”

Natasha claps a hand over Clint’s mouth, but she’s far too late. “Does that thing come with an off-switch?”

Clint signs, _You know it doesn’t,_ and she rolls her eyes.

Tony doesn’t exactly flee, but his pace is faster than Steve is accustomed to seeing from him. Not that Steve looks. Much.

* * *

The warmth he had felt at Tony’s arrival doesn’t abate, growing stronger as Steve squirms atop his bed, stripped down to his underwear.

_Not now, dammit,_ he thinks. _Maybe if I ignore it…_

Yeah, that has _never_ worked. Not even once.

Tony’s mark on his bonding gland itches then starts to burn bright as the familiar need within him heightens, begging for relief from a very specific, singular alpha.

He can’t ask for it, not right now, not from Tony, Steve tries to reason with his body. Not after everything that has happened. But his body doesn’t care. It wants what it wants, and right now, that’s Tony Stark.

No, he is not going to. Not this time.

“Captain Rogers, you are registering high levels of distress,” Jarvis clips out in a crisp, detached British accent. “I will inform sir.”

“No, don’t call him!” Steve tries to stop the AI, but it’s already too late.

“Steve?” Tony’s voice inflames Steve’s senses, offering a small measure of comfort while simultaneously multiplying his desire, the need boiling his nerves, burning him up.

“Tony,” he manages, but instead of steady, his tone is soft, keening and wanting. “Tony… I– I can’t…”

“I’ll be right there.”

Steve can only whimper his agreement.

Tony is a bit slower to comply than last time, and Steve’s body screams at the injustice of it all every second it has to wait for its alpha.

All is quickly forgiven when Tony arrives, hair still wet and glistening from his shower, his shirt damp from the cast-off droplets. Steve’s body thrums, reverberating: _Alpha, alpha, alpha. _

Tony’s steps are slow and heavy, his feet like lead weights as he approaches the bed. He gently rolls Steve onto his stomach and pulls down his underwear so it rests just under his bottom. Then, Steve hears the sound of pants being unzipped, a foil packet ripping followed by the feel of Tony’s dick sliding home.

_Tony…_ Steve’s body cries out in relief, but there is something wrong. Unlike their first time, Tony isn’t really touching him aside from the firm grip of his palms on either side of Steve’s hips, the meet of their pelvises where Steve can still feel the fabric of Tony’s pants, and the perfunctory slide of his cock in and out of Steve’s slick passage. Steve whines, pushing back harder against Tony and rubbing his own neglected erection against the bed for added friction.

Alpha is here; he’s inside him, but he’s displeased.

Steve reaches his hand out and back, searching for contact and reassurance, wanting to pull Alpha closer, encourage him to use his body. After all, doesn’t Omega feel so good, gripped tight and wet around Alpha’s cock?

Tony catches Steve’s wandering hand to plant it back on the mattress, and something inside Steve withers, rejection weighing heavy deep inside his belly. Alpha doesn’t want him. He’s not good enough; he has never been good enough. His body is an artificial shell, and Alpha can tell, can crack him open and see the weak frail thing inside. How can he possibly ever want such an omega? He chokes on a sob, and Alpha stills. Steve thrusts back against him, silently pleading for him to go faster. Tony complies, placing a hand on Steve’s back to push him down into the mattress as he speeds up, then reaching around to grasp Steve’s dick, stroking him erratically while his knot fills, continuing on through until both are spent. He never touches Steve’s bonding gland nor the mark upon it. Instead, Tony lays them down on their side, embracing Steve from behind but once again trying to limit where they touch, Tony’s back arching away so only his pelvis and arms are touching him. Steve’s underwear is still tangled around his thighs where Tony hadn’t bothered to remove it, while Tony himself remains fully clothed aside from his dick buried deep and swollen inside Steve.

Steve weeps, while Tony shushes him, stroking his back in mimicry of love and comfort he cannot possibly feel.

“Steve…” he croaks, his voice husky with exertion and something else Steve is too heat-addled and miserable to identify. “Steve, it’s okay. It’s going to be all right. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.”

Steve is sorry, too. Alpha is unhappy, and it is all his fault.

* * *

Two days later, Steve’s heat breaks. He lies motionless and quiet on his bed, curled away to face the window so he doesn’t have to watch Tony right his clothing and leave.

But he still hears Tony pause at the threshold for a moment too long, then knock the door jamb before finally exiting without saying a word.

* * *

Steve doesn’t see Tony much after that.

Tony is holed up in the lab again, with Banner. _With another omega,_ a niggling little voice whispers to him. _No, it’s not like that,_ Steve argues. Unlike Tony, he still sees Banner on occasion, during weekly team dinners, and Tony’s scent on him is surface-level-only, as one would expect from casual contact. He doesn’t know what he would do if it was otherwise. Still, it does little to quell the jealousy he tries to repress during such times.

“Um… Steve? Are you going to pass the potatoes, or…?” Banner asks from the other side of Thor, who is still waiting to collect the bowl from Steve’s iron grip.

He breathes out slow, resists the urge to fling the bowl at the other omega’s head, and passes it on.

_It’s not his fault,_ is the chant in Steve’s conscious thoughts. _They aren’t even fucking._

But Banner has the attention of the alpha his affection-starved lizard brain clearly thought should be rightfully his.

“Is Stark going to skip dinner again?” Natasha asks from across the table.

“He has a mini-fridge and a bar in the lab. I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Banner doesn’t look at her as he carefully sorts his peas and carrots into separate piles on the edge of his plate, then orders them by size within each category.

“Perhaps Steve should bring him a plate.”

“That is an outstanding idea,” Thor concurs.

Steve pushes his chair out to do just that when Banner objects, “No! No… that’s okay. I’m sure he doesn’t want anyone to make a special trip down to the lab. I’ll take something back for him later.”

Steve narrows his eyes at the other man. “It’s no trouble at all. I was going to ask him to look at my shield anyway. I think the balance might be a little off.”

“I can take that down later as well.”

“That’s alright, Banner,” he says pointedly, “It’s nothing personal, but I just am not a fan of other people touching my things.”

Steve gets up, grabs a clean plate, and proceeds to fill it with twice as much food as any normal human could possible eat, all the while staring at Banner, daring him to say something about it. Then, he straps the shield to his back, fills a thermos with ice water, and takes it all down the elevator, to the lab where Tony had exiled himself with only the good doctor for company.

When he enters through the sliding doors, Tony is deep in single-minded concentration, soldering something within the arm of one of his new Iron Man suits.

“Hey Bruce. Can you hand me the–” without turning around, he waves his hand in a circular motion “–the thing. For my suit. Jet packs for my palms…”

_When was the last time Tony slept? _

“Repulsors.” Steve says, sliding the tray onto the nearest counter.

“Jesus!” Tony jumps, dropping the soldering gun, burning his left arm – “Fuck!” – and spinning to face his unexpected guest, right hand clasped over the burn, expression screwed up in pain and much too pallid to be healthy. “A little warning would have been nice, Jay.”

“My deepest apologies, sir.”

“You should get that under some cool running water,” Steve instructs, tilting his head up towards the ceiling, “Jarvis where’s the burn cream and bandages?”

“Fifth cabinet along the wall to your left, third drawer from the bottom.”

“Thank you, Jarvis,” he walks towards the indicated drawer, rustling through the contents until he finds the tube and some gauze. Turning around, he sees that Tony is still frozen in place, staring at him. “Tony, the water?”

That seems to snap him out of that as he makes his way to the sink to run his arm under the faucet. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought you dinner,” he replies, “and I wanted you to take a look at my shield.” He flips it from his back to hold it between them, but now that he says it out-loud, the excuse feels rather thin.

Tony plays along anyway. “What’s wrong with it?”

He palms the edge, hefting it from one hand then onto the counter. “Feels off-balanced.”

“In what way?”

“You’re hurt,” Steve says, taking Tony’s arm into his hands. Tony hisses at the contact but allows him to examine the site and gently smear on the burn cream then wrap his arm in bandages.

“The shield?” He attempts to alleviate the tension caused by their proximity by bringing the conversation back to what they both know isn’t the point of Steve’s visit.

“You should eat something before it gets cold,” Steve insists instead, stepping away to gather the dinner tray and place it in front of Tony.

“Maybe later. The microwave is a wonderful invention, Cap.”

“That might be true, but it doesn’t do jack if you are determined to starve to death.”

“Just because I don’t eat six times a day like some people, doesn’t mean I’m starving myself.”

Steve ignores the jab. “At this point, I would settle for you eating a real meal at least twice a day.”

“How about once every two days,” Tony counters, waving off the suggestion. “I’ll throw in a meal replacement shake on off-days. Best offer.”

“Your health isn’t under negotiation.”

“You don’t need to take care of me,” he pats his chest with both hands in emphasis. “I’m not your responsibility.”

“Someone has to do it, because you clearly won’t.” Steve stands firm.

So Tony changes track, “Is this that famous omega nesting instinct I’ve heard so much about? I didn’t think I’d see the day Captain America would become such a mother hen.”

“Just eat,” Steve deadpans, crossing his arms. “Please Tony. For once, can you not turn everything into an argument?”

Tony is silent for a beat, then: “There’s nothing wrong with your shield, is there?”

“I told you. It felt off-balanced.”

“And by bringing it down here?”

“It’s feeling better already.”

Tony picks up a fork. “Okay, Steve. Just this once.”

* * *

It isn’t a one-time thing. It happens again.

And again.

And again.

It didn’t help that Jarvis saw Steve’s efforts as a positive influence on Tony’s health and made only half-hearted attempts to block him from the lab when ordered by Tony.

“My apologies, Captain Rogers, but sir is indisposed at the moment, and he definitely told me not to tell you the access code to the lab, which is his birthday,” Jarvis had informed him the first time. When Steve entered in 5291970 to no avail, Jarvis gently reminded him, “May represented as a numerical value has a leading zero.”

05291970 – Access Granted

“You must forgive me, Captain Rogers,” Jarvis had said the second time when Steve entered the same code only to be denied. “Sir has ordered that under no circumstances should I tell you the access code directly nor tangentially. Though on an entirely unrelated note, have you seen the February edition of Playboy? The centerfold has impressive measurements. Sir was quite entranced.”

362536 – Access Granted

By the third time, Jarvis no longer greets him at the door, but the nearest screen flashes up the message, _I have been ordered not to speak to you, but a science lesson would not be remiss. Are you aware Planck’s constant is integral to an understanding of quantum mechanics?_

Steve had to look that one up. Thank God for the internet. So helpful.

662607015 – Access Granted.

Shortly after Jarvis resorts to Morse code using the hallway lights, Tony gives up on barricading Steve from the lab, coming upstairs to the kitchen instead to take his meals in person, often alongside Steve.

“Huh. So, you eat actual food? I always assumed you ran on electricity,” Clint comments on Tony’s sandwich, carefully assembled by Steve to include all the food groups, excluding cheese because Tony had informed him he was trying to cut out dairy for health reasons.

“For someone who doesn’t live here, you spend a lot of time hanging around. Keep it up, and I’ll have to start charging you rent.”

“You don’t charge Steve rent,” Clint points out, reaching over to steal half of Tony’s lunch.

Tony slaps his hand away. “Steve makes me sandwiches.” He takes a large bite from each half, protecting both from Clint via biological warfare (also known in layman’s terms as old-man cooties).

“Yeah, about that. So, are you and Steve…” he makes an impolite hand gesture.

“Clint, don’t be so crude,” Steve says as he comes to sit next to Tony, his plate piled high with three sandwiches.

“You are, aren’t you?”

Steve replies, “It’s complicated,” at the same time Tony says, “No.”

They turn to face each other, incredulous at the other’s answer.

Clint loudly scoots out his chair. “I think this is my cue to leave,” he says, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl on the way out, but he circles back, “Forgot my…” he leans over to plant a finger on the edge of Steve’s plate and slowly pull it towards himself, scrapping the bottom along the counter with a drawn-out, high-pitched screech. He then quietly steals the closest sandwich before exiting once again.

Steve barely notices. “No?” he inquires.

“It’s complicated?” Tony echoes.

“Tony, what do you think is going on?” Steve asks carefully.

“I don’t know, Cap. You tell me,” he drops his voice, wary of their location out in the open. “I thought you didn’t want anyone to know. You were angry about the bite bond, and that was before you even knew it was permanent,” he finishes with a heavy undertone of guilt. “Look, I think both of us would rather talk about this in private.”

They leave their sandwiches on the counter, with Steve pulling Tony towards his bedroom. He opens it first, stepping through then locking it after Tony.

“Okay, we’re alone; now explain,” he says, turning to face Tony.

“Of course, we’re… you know, having sex,” Tony stares at the bed, where it had all happened. “But that’s because you don’t have a choice, not anymore, not in any way that is meaningful. I took that from you. So now, I can be whatever you want. You want me on the opposite coast so you can clear your head and see if you can bond with someone else given enough time? You got it. You want me to help you through your heats when it gets too painful? I’m there. I…” he runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the tangled ends where his fingers catch. His hair is getting a touch long. Steve has the overwhelming urge to brush it back, but he tamps it down. “I tried to keep my distance last time, do what is necessary to lessen the pain without… without taking advantage of you more than I have. I created this situation. I- I forced you into this, but I’m trying to make it right. So, I guess the real question is: What do you need? Since you didn’t get a choice the first time around, I’ll be whatever you want, Cap.”

Steve thinks about it for a moment, then responds honestly, “I don’t want to be an obligation to you. The last time… I’m not going to lie. Last time was awful.”

“I’m so sorry,” Tony repeats the old refrain, regret heavy in his voice. “I know you don’t want me, but it had to be me because...” he points to his own shoulder, mirroring where his mark mars Steve’s skin, the only scar on his entire body.

Steve shakes his head. “It was awful because _you_ don’t want _me_. You didn’t bother getting undressed. You barely touched me if you could help it. You- you flipped me over so you didn’t even have to look at me. I don’t think you kissed me even once the whole time,” Steve suppresses a whine, steadying his voice. “You were the one who didn’t want me.”

Tony is almost breathless. “I want you, Steve. I’ve always wanted you. Jesus Christ, have you seen you? I’m only human.”

“Then prove it.”

Tony chuckles without any humor. “I have to say, Cap. You’re sending me mixed signals here.”

“If they’re still mixed, I must be doing something wrong.” Steve steps forward into the other man’s personal space, dropping his voice low, “I’d like to kiss you but only if you want it, too.”

Tony sounds resigned. “Is it because it’s either me or nothing?”

“If I didn’t like you, then I’d rather have nothing. Trust me on that.” Steve leans down so their lips are inches apart, Tony’s breath ghosting against Steve’s mouth.

Tony tips his chin up to capture his lips. He embraces him then, parting the press of their mouths to slip in his tongue and entangle it with Steve’s own.

Steve makes the next move, trailing down over Tony’s pants to pop a button open.

Tony jumps. He makes a small sound of surprise, tongue receding, then leans back to look down, but Steve is already withdrawing his hands and pulling away.

“Sorry–”

Tony holds on, stepping forward as Steve retreats. “No, that’s…” He surreptitiously scents the air, his nostrils flaring slightly. “Steve, you’re not on your heat.”

“Well, someone once told me I didn’t have to be to have fun,” Steve blushes, “Only if you’re up for it.”

In response, Tony leans up to kiss him, finishing unzipping then dropping his pants and kicking them off behind him. Steve slips his hands up underneath Tony’s shirt, his palms resting on the other man’s waist then traveling up, lifting his shirt up past his bellybutton, but Tony stills his hands, holding them down on both sides. Steve lets go immediately, and Tony rights it, his eyes not quite meeting Steve’s.

“Look, I’m still game, but I- I’m not like you. I’m not perfect. There’s a lot of… scarring. From Afghanistan, and then from the surgery. It’s ugly,” he murmurs.

“You’re beautiful,” Steve tries to reassure him.

Tony twists his mouth into a wobbly grin. “You’re just saying that because you haven’t seen it. You heal from major injuries without a scratch on you, but some of us mere mortals aren’t so lucky.”

“It would never change how I see you, Tony, but if it makes you feel more comfortable…” Steve wraps his hands around the other man’s clothed torso, kissing from his neck to his ear. Maybe one day, Tony will feel comfortable enough in his own skin to share the sight with him, but even if he never does, Steve won’t press the issue. After all, Steve is all too familiar with insecurities related to one’s body, some of which still linger to tell him he isn’t good enough, that he can’t have this.

Stripping off his clothes, Steve leads Tony back to the bed, allowing Tony to lay him down then mount him, one leg on each side of his thighs, his arms cradling his face and around his back, trapping him in a cage of limbs. Tony lightly grinds his erection against the cleft of Steve’s pelvis, a promise of what is to come, and Steve eagerly lifts his hips, offering himself up to Tony when the man’s mouth abruptly leaves him, kissing him down his neck towards his chest and further still.

“Tony?” Steve gasps.

“Shhh…. I’ve been wanting to for a while, but is it okay if I blow you?”

“If you what?” He isn’t familiar with that bit of slang.

“You know…” Tony rolls the fingers of one hand into a cylinder, tapping against his lips with the cheeks sucked in.

_Oh… cock-sucking._ “Yes.”

Tony doesn’t have to be told twice, sliding his lips up and over Steve’s dick, his tongue lapping up the sides and around his cockhead in broad wicked strokes. Steve has never had a fella suck his cock before. It hadn’t been common in the 1940s between omegas and alphas, particularly since knotting made the act difficult to safely practice on the generally more-dominant alpha, and it had never been necessary to quell an omega’s heats. Steve had never given it much thought, but now…

He gasps and moans as Tony’s clever tongue does unspeakable things to him, awakening hidden desires within his body. Steve can feel his passage growing wet with slick, and despite the lack of a biological heat, his body warms, clenching at the emptiness within, aching for Tony to fill it.

He’s chanting Tony’s name like a prayer, running his fingers through the man’s hair, twisting up the damp locks until he pulls off.

“Like that?”

Steve bites his lip to contain a whine. _Why did he stop?_

“Shhhh… shhhh… I know, I know,” Tony coos gently. “I got you, gorgeous.” Tony reaches into Steve’s nightstand, rummaging through the contents as he manually strokes Steve’s dick. “Um… Steve? Where are your condoms?”

“I don’t… don’t have any,” he bites out, thrusting up into Tony’s fist. Tony had grabbed a couple condoms on his way over during their first encounters, but Steve had used up the rest of his box when they had gone past round 3 and beyond.

“Um… we don’t need to. I can get you off other ways,” Tony offers, licking Steve’s cockhead again as a suggestion.

“No,” Steve pushes his shoulder, and Tony sits up on his haunches, Steve’s erection proud and weeping between them still grasped loosely. “It’s okay. I’m not on my heat so no babies” – he thrusts his hips again, sliding through Tony’s palm, shivering at the feeling – “and I can’t catch or pass anything.”

“Are you sure? You’ll smell like me,” Tony leans in over Steve, his pupils dilated black. “We’ll smell like each other.”

“I’m sure,” Steve affirms, wrapping his legs around him.

Tony slips in, tentative and slow, eyes focused on his lover’s face to observe his reaction, and when Steve melts, sighing happily, he speeds up, whispering dirty things about how wet Steve is, how tight and oh so good, how he’s going to wreck his hole and fill him up full, mark him inside and out so people will know Steve is _his, his, his,_ and Tony will never ever let him go.

And Steve is moving against him, rising hips to meet his, his arms encircling Tony, his body gripping tight and sweet around Tony’s cock, feeling the knot fill and swell until the sensation explodes bright white, his body spasming around Tony’s, and then there’s wetness between them and spilling inside as Tony slumps over atop Steve. Like that first time, he rolls them both to the side. Facing each other, Tony drops his forehead to Steve’s chest and pulls him in close, his breathing slowing to a tremble.

* * *

“One of these days, we should go on a real date,” Tony says idly as they wait for his knot to abate, trailing his finger through Steve’s cum drying across his twitching abdominals.

Steve props his head up on one palm, elbow planted in the mattress. “You want to step out with me?”

Tony kisses his neck down towards the bonding gland, lovingly dragging his tongue across his mark there. Steve shivers, and Tony smiles against his skin. “Why wouldn’t I? Saturday. 7:00. Meet me in the foyer. We’ll go to Per Se. It has three Michelin stars.”

“Michelin? Don’t they make tires?”

“And rate food. They’re the premier authority on good taste.”

Steve screws up his face. “The future’s weird.”

“Fair,” Tony allows. “So… actual date where we go outside and people might see us and god-forbid mistake us as a couple?”

Steve quirks up a perfect eyebrow. “Mistake?”

“Correctly assume we are a couple because that’s what we obviously and ever so very clearly are,” he amends. “Right?”

“I’d love to.”

Steve is still not sold on the future. But for the first time in a very long time, he doesn’t feel completely out of place. He’s got a home, friends, and the most famous, beautiful futurist this world can offer to guide him through it.

**Author's Note:**

> Original Cap-IronMan Kinkmeme Prompt in Full: Bond bites are a way to claim an omega for the duration of one heat and usually only last until halfway to the next heat, but something about the serum makes them permanent on Steve. He doesn't realize this until after he spends a heat with Tony. What was supposed to be one time only becomes a bit more.


End file.
